


We’d Walk among the World Again

by Irrealia



Series: Tumblr Ficlets - Bagginshield Edition [7]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Crafts, Cultural Differences, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Music, Pre-Het, background bagginshield, gen - Freeform, if you want it to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 04:45:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8651578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrealia/pseuds/Irrealia
Summary: A birthday gift for the ever-amazing Pangur. 
Nobody dies, everyone lives, time has passed after the Battle of the Five Armies, and Dale and Erebor have mostly sorted themselves out. Tilda is a princess now, but it turns out being a princess is pretty boring, and she has fond memories of the dwarfs who turned her childhood upside-down. Enter Bilbo (and Bofur!) to fix that.





	

Tilda had expected very many things. **  
**

She had expected to take up some kind of trade when she got older—weaving perhaps, something women did, although she was fascinated by the women she saw doing intricate metalwork for jewellery in the marketplace sometimes.

Definitely nothing fish related. Fish were right out.

And then, at some point, she would probably get married. Sigrid said that’s what women did, if they wanted babies, and Tilda had to concede that babies could be cute sometimes, when they weren’t all red in the face.

Fire and a dragon, she hadn’t expected. Life as a refugee, surviving a war—no, these had not been on her brief to-do list for her life.

Life as a princess? She had expected that even less than world-destroying calamity. Her home was gone, and many of her friends and neighbours were dead, but here, at the end of it all, she was a princess.

She had always gathered from stories that being a princess wasn’t very much fun—pretty dresses, waiting for princes. Embroidery. And sadly, the stories seemed to have the right of it. Da didn’t remarry (And thank the Valar for that!), but the ladies who somehow appeared from nowhere to populate his court seemed to think Sigrid and Tilda ought to be embroidering, or undertaking other delicate crafts, and did their foremost to school them in appropriately princess-like comportment.

“I know how to embroider,” snapped Tilda one day at someone who she was certain meant very well. “Grew up with no ma, who do you think got the sewing done?”

The woman was stunned into a silence better than any reprimand, and Tilda’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She supposed, belatedly, that she was spoiling the show of court life. That it was just as bad to remind the woman that she hadn’t always been a princess, as it was to show off that she could embroider but chose not to. It had been a chore, it had been something she had done to make her own clothing a little more fun when she could—it wasn’t at all a thing she wanted to keep doing now that she didn’t have to.

Fortunately, Tilda had already realised that the upside of being a princess was that, after grievously offending someone, few would call attention to you if you followed it up with, “Please accept my apologies—I don’t seem to be feeling very well today,”

Which is exactly what Tilda did, before she took to her bed. Like a delicate princess.

—

“I need something to do, Da,” said Tilda the next morning at breakfast. “I’ll go spare if I just stay here at court.”

“Of course,” said her Da, who was an honourable man, and a good king, but first and foremost a very practical man. “You’re a lively young woman, and you shouldn’t be sitting idle. Perhaps you could take up…..” and then he paused and thought, plainly at a loss for a good thing for Tilda to be doing. If Tilda found herself confused between her upbringing and her present elevated status, it had to be even worse for her Da. She understood, now that she had got a bit older, that being a leader was as much about looking and acting the part as it was about actually doing all the important leadery things. And she also understood that, however awkward she found it to be a princess, her father must find it infinitely more awkward to be a king. They were neither of them made for sitting much.

And then she had an idea.

“What if I went to go stay with the dwarves, Da?” asked Tilda. Sigrid raised an eyebrow across the table at her, but Bain barely looked up from his attack on the bacon. For his part, Da pushed himself back a little bit from the table, surprised but clearly open to the suggestion.

“I could be an emissary,” went on Tilda, “Or you could send me off to be tutored by them since the dwarves are all so very old and have such wonderful secret knowledge! And then one day I could be a very wise queen or an advisor to Bain and also all of the dwarves are so lovely and funny—do you remember how we first met them when they climbed out of our toilet?”

She took a quick gulp of coffee, to steady herself, but her mouth had already decided on its future course. As soon as she had swallowed it, she picked right back up with, “And think of all the wonderful crafts I could learn that would be so much more interesting than stupid embroidery!”

Da laughed. Then he called for paper, and a quill, and sent a message off by raven that very afternoon.

—

It took a bit of negotiation to actually craft Tilda’s idea into a workable plan. Ravens flew back and forth between Dale and the Lonely Mountain for a few days, sorting out the details, and Tilda packed a trunk, and waited, and then packed it over again, so impatient she was for a change in her routine. But soon she was setting off for Erebor, her father having arranged for her to stay for some indeterminate amount of time and complete a course of education in art and diplomacy that would not be too offensive to the dwarves’ secretive sensibilities. Prince Bilbo, the king’s consort, had for some reason decided to champion her cause, and King Thorin, despite his healthy respect for dwarven secrecy, was ill-disposed to oppose him for long.

And so about a week later, freedom from princessing was in sight, although she was loath to leave all the work of dealing with The Court solely to Sigrid. “It’s Bain’s job to learn so I suppose there’s no helping him,” sighed Tilda as she embraced her sister on the steps of their father’s halls. “But I am rather sorry to leave you to it alone.”

“I’ll just have to find an excuse to come visit you,” said Sigrid, with a knowing little wink.

“Won’t we just,” said Tilda, winking back. And then she was off.

—

It was a short ride to Erebor, but she was greeted at the gate as befitted her station, by King Thorin and Prince Bilbo, and by King Thorin’s Company, who were now often called to serve as an honour guard of sorts. The King—who for all that he was a dwarf, was very nearly as tall as she was—helped her down from her horse and led her into the halls of Erebor himself, where she did her best to curtsey to the King’s Company and the Lords of Erebor as she had been taught.

Her real education began shortly thereafter, as they promptly led Tilda down to a feast hall. “Any excuse for a feast, this lot,” whispered a conspiratorial voice at her side—Prince Bilbo, the halfling (who was perhaps half the height of a full-grown man but a bit taller in comparison to a girl just turned nineteen). “Whatever manners your father taught you in Dale, be prepared to abandon them here.”

Prince Bilbo had not been joking, for all that he had a merry reputation. In the great hall, much of the company’s finery had been doffed, and food was literally flying everywhere. At first Tilda’s eyes widened with shock—so much food, so very everywhere! Then glee rushed in after, and she nearly doubled over laughing. To her further amusement, the prince wound up supporting her, small though he was, and he patted her very reassuringly on the small of her back. “It is funny, isn’t it,” he replied, looking up at her with a knowing twinkle in his eye. “Just be glad it’s not your own home they’re laying waste to.” Then before he could elaborate on that comment, the prince left Tilda to her own devices and went to go fetch his own share of the feast which—she could not help but note—he insisted on eating a bit more delicately than the dwarrows around him.

For her own part, Tilda slowly wove through the crowd, trying to get her bearings. For all that the party was being thrown in her honour—so far as she could tell—the dwarven way of going about things seemed to require just diving in. So she circled, grabbing a mug of ale here, a mince pie there, waving to faces that looked familiar as she caught sight of them, until she fell still at the sight of a dwarf with moustaches braided into twin crescents climbing onto a table to sing….

And just before he could launch into song, Tilda was tripping over her skirts, pointing at the dwarf on the table. The years seemed to have barely touched him, although they had wrought the transformations of adulthood in her. He was just the same as when she had first saw him popping out of the water closet in her long-gone shanty in Laketown, and just as cheerful, if much less bedraggled.

“Master Bofur!” she cried, the name coming back to her in an instant.

“M’Lady,” he said, tipping his cap and bowing deeply to her from his place on the table. “Welcome to Erebor.”

And then he began to sing, and his voice was just as sweet and kind as she remembered, from that evening when the dwarves had made merry in her father’s house in Laketown.

—

At some point, some of the noble ladies amongst the dwarves had escorted her from the feast to chambers that had been specially prepared for her—with a window and everything!—but Tilda was well prepared to curse the window when the sun began streaming in the next morning, each little particle of light seeming to rattle her poor sore head. She was fumbling about for a dressing gown when a maidservant ducked into her bedroom with a light breakfast that smelled delicious, and a cordial that smelled disconcerting. “Drink it up,” coached the maid, who introduced herself as Lís, and Tilda downed it obediently. After a few flops of her stomach, she did seem to feel better, and she tackled her breakfast bravely whilst the maid sorted through Tilda’s gowns. Apparently her schedule had few allowances in it for being young and unaccustomed to dwarven ale. “You’ll be wanting something practical,” said Lís. “You’re to meet with the Prince Consort, once you’re feeling up to it, to sort out what you’ll be doing whilst you’re here, and then his highness thought you might like to get started straight off.”

“That sounds perfect,” sighed Tilda, although it might have been more perfect if her head were aching just a little bit less.

“Don’t forget to drink plenty of water,” said Lís. “What are they giving you in Dale anyway? We’ll have to get you some more comfortable things to wear whilst you’re here. How are you ever supposed to work in these?”

Tilda abandoned her breakfast and threw her arms impulsively around Lís. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard in ages,” she moaned, and then Lís nudged her back towards breakfast. “They’re clearly not feeding you enough either,” she added, followed by, “I thought you had all that farming sorted by now.”

—

“Dwarves—” said the prince consort, decked out in a practical tunic and short trousers, with only a slender golden circlet lodged among his silver-and-gold hair to signify his rank— “They’re awfully fond of secrets. As you know. But as I’ve managed to convince my husband, we’ll have better allies in the world of men and elves if we had a bit fewer of them.” His eyes flickered sideways as he mentioned “elves,” towards a table not far off, in the royal parlour, where Thorin’s heirs were conversing in enthusiastic but impenetrable Khuzdul.

“It’s true then!” whispered Tilda. “The rumours about Prince Kíli.”

“I would think the whole east knew by now, but the trouble is they’re awfully good at this secrets lark, even when they’re not even trying very hard at it,” said the Prince with a little wrinkle of his nose. “Frankly I’m glad you’re here. I’ve had a hard enough time getting them out of the habit with me. Hopefully having you around for a bit will have a similarly beneficial effect.”

Tilda beamed back at him. It was hard not to like Prince Bilbo, and she was only sorry, now, that she’d been so off-kilter at royal engagements of the past, when she might have been enjoying herself.

“So what did you want to learn, Tilda? Your father said that you wanted to be instructed in some craft, but, honestly—it’s up to you. Dwarves have rather strong feelings about choosing crafts actually, would never force anyone into a certain trade. They’re very, well, personal, to some dwarves. Perhaps you’d like to tour some of the guilds today, if you didn’t already have something in mind? Find something that calls to you?”

“What does Master Bofur do?” she asked, suddenly shy.

The prince consort of Erebor tilted his head at her question, and gave her a long, searching look. Tilda blushed a bit—she couldn’t help it, under the close scrutiny.

“Time was,” said the prince, “he was a miner and tinker, who helped his cousin Bifur make toys.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Tilda, shyness put to the side again. “The dwarven toys they sell in Dale are so marvellous, with all those clever moving parts! He made those?”

“Some of them, no doubt,” nodded the prince. “And of course, as you saw last night, he sings and plays the flute and clarinet.”

Tilda nodded. “I’m not sure my hands are clever enough for toymaking, and I’m certain I’m not strong enough for mining. But—oh your highness, there was such wonderful music last night! Do you think I might learn that? To play and sing? Well, if my voice is good enough.”

Bilbo laughed and patted her thigh softly. “I’m sure there’s an instrument for you. Thorin and nearly all his company play, and if they can’t teach you, we’ll go to the musician’s guild and have you try absolutely everything until you find something that suits.” He stood up, and beckoned for Tilda to follow him through a few winding corridors and into what she was sure, based on the advancing levels of grandeur, was the very apartment he shared with the king. Resting gently by a plush armchair was a magnificent harp wrought in beautifully carved wood with inlaid silver…. or was it even mithril? She gasped. “That is the king’s harp,” said Bilbo. “Fíli and Kíli are both proficient fiddlers, and their mother plays the lute.”

“I….” said Tilda, who had barely ever seen anything beyond a penny whistle, before her curious emprincessment. “I think we ought to go to the musician’s guild, so I can perhaps learn all the different kinds of instruments there are to play upon!”

“A wise choice,” said Prince Bilbo, and then they were off again, and every part of the mountain that Tilda saw that day, from the guild to even the simplest corridors of Erebor, held beauty and delights beyond anything she’d ever dreamed possible.

—

There was no feast, that second night, but Tilda was informed that she was invited to join the king and his family for dinner whilst residing in the mountain. She was tired, as she changed into an evening dress, and her hands felt sore and stretched in ways she hadn’t even imagined before, as she tried to stretch her hands to cover all the holes of a flute or bend her fingers to press the doubled strings of a lute. And there was yet more to try tomorrow, before she made her choice: all manner of zithers and drums and trumpets to explore. And once she had chosen an instrument, she would learn, too, something of how they were made. And of course, how to read music, how to compose, how to sing…. It was dizzying. It felt just like standing on the highest balconies of Erebor and looking down, with a whole world opening up before her.

Her face hurt from smiling.

And then, underneath her window, she heard a song wafting upward:

__

_There came a maiden wandering_  
_From Dale to Erebor_  
_Forsaking there the halls of kings_  
_For ancient dwarven lore._  
_She had a mind of silver quick_  
_And heart of mighty stone_  
_And so the gates of Erebor_  
_Were raised for her alone._  
_The king under the mountain bids us_  
_Holds our neighbours dear._  
_If all of them were sweet as you,_  
_No dwarf would ever fear_  
_The prejudice of elves or men:_  
_We’d walk among the world again._

“Oh!” cried Tilda, who was now leaning out her window, covering her face with her hands to hide her blushing; Bofur was beneath the window on a mountain ledge, serenading her while his cousin Bifur accompanied him on what she now easily recognised as a clarinet. But when the song was over, of course, there could be no more hiding. She clapped wildly, as both the composition and the performance deserved.

“Your highness!” called Bofur from down below, as he took a sweeping bow, removing his hat. “I hear you’re to be trained in song?”

“I am!” said Tilda, who shouted back down with equal enthusiasm.

“Then perhaps one day you can sing a duet with me,” suggested Bofur, and his eyes were shining brightly in the twilight as their gazes met over the mountain slope.

“I would like nothing better, Master Bofur,” said Tilda. “Really, nothing better.”

“Well, off to dinner with you then!” said Bofur, who gave her another sweeping bow. “We’ve got plenty of time, your highness, plenty of time to make music.”


End file.
